In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Rubbish, Jackson. You know I ride perfectly well.” Phoebe tossed her head defiantly, and it seemed that the pony mirrored her action, almost jerking the reins from Alfie’s grasp.

“I know you’re a splendid little rider, my lady,” he said. “I think your dad is more concerned about all them soldiers hanging around here. Not safe anymore, even on our own grounds.”

Phoebe’s cheeks were rather pink, but she said, “You can take Snowball now. I have to tell my father something important.”

The groom took the pony, and Alfie followed Phoebe, who was already striding out for the big house. He had to run to catch up with her as she headed up the front steps. For a moment he was tempted to let her go in alone—he could sneak back to the gamekeeper’s cottage where he knew breakfast would be waiting. But at the last second, she turned back, holding open the door. “Come along, Alfie. Do get a move on,” she said impatiently.

The entrance hall was as daunting as he remembered it; now their feet were echoing on the marble tiled floor to the painted vault of ceiling high above. A group of officers was coming down the main staircase.

“We could tell them,” Alfie whispered to Phoebe.

“I told you, it’s my father’s land. He has to know first,” Phoebe said. She passed the officers, who nodded to her as they crossed the foyer, then she turned left. The long gallery that ran the length of the building had been boarded up with plywood, with a newly erected door in it marked “Family Quarters: Private.” Phoebe opened the door, and Alfie found himself in the gallery. It was lined with oak panelling. The high ceiling was carved with gilded Tudor roses, and along its length were trophy heads of animals as well as tapestries of hunting scenes. To Alfie it was quite alarming, but Phoebe strode on, not seeming to notice.

At the end of the hall, they came to another foyer with a staircase on one side, not as grand as the central one. Phoebe looked around. “I do hope he’s up. I’m sure he must be up.”

At the sound of her voice, a butler appeared. “You’ve been out riding already, my lady? A fine morning—”

“Have you seen my father, Soames?” Phoebe cut into his words. “I must find him. It’s important.”

“I saw him come down the stairs a few minutes ago, my lady, but I’m not sure where he went. Would you like me to locate him for you?”

“It’s all right. We’ll find him. Come on, Alfie,” Phoebe said as she set off again down a central hallway lined with family portraits. “Pah?” she called. “Pah? Where are you?”

Lord Westerham was sitting at the breakfast table, about to attack a mound of kedgeree. Thank God for kippers, he was thinking. One of the few things that are still worth eating. Not that they appeared often at the local fishmonger’s, since fishing in the North Sea had become such a dangerous occupation. But when the odd kipper was available, the fishmonger always sent a message to Farleigh and reserved a couple behind the counter. “I know how fond his lordship is of his kippers,” the fishmonger’s wife said. In the good old days, it would have been a pair of kippers each for breakfast. Now Mrs. Mortlock had to make the most of them by using them in a kedgeree instead of the traditional smoked haddock.

He had just taken a mouthful when he heard someone shouting. He had barely identified the voice as his youngest daughter’s, as she burst into the room.

“Was that you making that unseemly row?” Lord Westerham scowled at her, waving his fork. “Does your governess not teach you the rudiments of good behaviour?”

“No, Pah, she’s always telling me that a lady never raises her voice, but it’s an emergency. I simply had to find you right away. We’ve found a body. At least Alfie found it, and he stopped me from riding over it.”

“What? What’s this?” Lord Westerham put down his fork and glared at Alfie, trying to remember who he was and why a strange child was in his breakfast room.

“A body, Father. In the far field. He fell out of the sky. It’s rather horrible, but you have to come.”

“His parachute didn’t open,” Alfie added, then rather wished he had stayed silent as Lord Westerham turned to glare at him. Lord Westerham’s glare, under those bushy eyebrows, was quite alarming, and Alfie swallowed nervously, glancing at the door and wondering if a bolt was possible.

“What were you doing on my land? Poaching, I shouldn’t wonder,” Lord Westerham said.

“No, sir. I’m staying with your gamekeeper, remember?” Alfie said.

“Oh yes. So you are.”

“And he sends me out to check the traps in the early morning,” Alfie said. “And I saw this thing lying there, and I didn’t know what it was, so I went to look, and it was this bloke, all smashed up. A right mess. And then your daughter came galloping toward him, so I stopped her, and she said we should tell you first.”

“Quite right. Quite right.” Lord Westerham put down his napkin and stood up. “Well, I suppose you’d better take me to see, hadn’t you?” He glared in annoyance as two English setters raced toward the door, sensing that their master was about to go out. “And make sure those blasted dogs don’t get out. I don’t want them nosing about a corpse.” He looked down at them, their feathery tales wagging excitedly, eyes fixed on him, and his tone softened in a way that he never addressed his children. “Sorry, St. John. Sorry, Missie, old girl. Can’t take you this time. But we’ll make up for it later.” He gave them a quick pat on the head. “Now stay!” he commanded. Both dogs sat, looking worried. As their little party reached the end of the long gallery, Phoebe turned to see the dogs still sitting in a shaft of sunlight.





CHAPTER THREE


Farleigh, the kitchen

May 1941



“What was that kerfuffle all about, Mr. Soames?” Mrs. Mortlock looked up from the kitchen table, her arms elbow deep in flour as the butler was coming through the baize door. “Young Elsie said she heard shouting when she was carrying up the hot water for Miss Livvy.”

“Lady Phoebe seemed most agitated about something,” Mr. Soames said, in his calm and measured way. “I didn’t quite hear the full story, but I caught something about a body.”

“A body? Well, I never. What next?” Mrs. Mortlock brushed off her hands so that a cloud of flour rose around her. “Poor Lady Phoebe. Don’t tell me she came upon a body. A shock like that could unhinge the mind of a delicate young girl like Lady Phoebe.”

Mr. Soames smiled. “I rather suspect that Lady Phoebe is as tough as any of us, Mrs. Mortlock. But as you say, it is most worrying to think of a body here at Farleigh.”

“Where was it found, Mr. Soames? Anyone we know?” Mrs. Mortlock asked, moving away from her mixing bowl now that she was truly interested.

“Not that I heard. Just that she had found a body. And since she had just come in wearing her riding outfit, one must assume she found it on the grounds.”

“It’s them soldiers,” Ruby, the kitchen maid, commented from the kitchen sink. “They’re all sex-starved.”

There was a gasp from Mrs. Mortlock.